Brit Psycho
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: Standalone sequel to "Cardiology for the Damned". With Kelly Kline's due date fast approaching, Dean reaches out to the demon doctor who aided him with the Mark of Cain for help. Unfortunately for him, Arthur Ketch gets to her first. Worse still for Ketch, he's woefully unprepared for what Dr Carter has in store.
1. Chapter 1

**A/** **N: Written for the 2017 British Men Of Letters Big Bang on Tumblr. Many thanks to kuwlshadow for her artwork, and to kittycat-cas for beta-ing.  
**

 **This is chronologically a successor to my previous** _ **Physician**_ **series and takes part in the same universe. Reading that** **isn't strictly necessary for following this one, though it does give an introduction to Dr Carter and how she knows commences immediately after the season 12 finale, and will flash back to run in parallel to season 12.**

 **Warnings for violence and torture scenes.**

* * *

 _Now_

The Hyundai's tires screech as the vehicle careens into the parking garage, missing any one bay and instead coming to a haphazard stop across three. It's lucky not to have outright collided with the wall. Luckier still that it managed to even get this far.

The driver's side door opens and a man stumbles out, hands grasping at the door rim, the concrete pillar beside the car, anything for support as he tries to stay upright. Blood pours down his face, mingling with filthy canal water clinging to his skin. It's coating his clothes, his hair, his hands… The leather inside the car is soaked. Not his - stolen from a parking lot and damn near electrocuting him when he tried to hotwire it with drenched, trembling hands. He can barely think, barely even see as the bullet in his head ignites sparks behind his eyes. His feet stumble on autopilot towards the familiar elevator, hands shaking as he pulls back the grill and falls inside. Thirteenth floor. He just has to make it that far.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. A bullet wasn't supposed to kill him. That hadn't been the plan…

After what feels like an age of an ice pick repeatedly striking his skull, the elevator reaches the floor. Ketch stumbles out, smearing more blood on the walls, dripping on the floor behind him as he pushes on towards apartment 1307. Thank god at this hour the place is deserted. At least he thinks it is. He's not aware enough of anything beyond the pain to tell for sure.

There's going to be hell to pay when he makes it. He's bracing himself for the wrath that's awaiting him and tries to swallow his pride, but an unwelcome sense of guilt sticks in his throat. She'll kill him as soon as help him, he knows. The catch now, of course, is that she _can't_.

Finally, he makes it, the numbers on the door swimming in front of his eyes. He braces himself against the wall and raps his knuckles against the wood. It sends more waves of pain shooting up his arm, but he can barely distinguish one sensation from another anymore. _Please answer._

She won't be sleeping. It's still too early with midnight only just past, unless he's completely misjudged the time. That doesn't exactly seem unlikely.

He's already losing his remaining grip on consciousness by the time he hears the latch turn and the door swings open, bringing into view a pale, narrow face framed by bed-mussed raven hair. She gives him a cold stare, grey eyes widening almost imperceptibly as she takes in the state he's in. For a moment, he thinks she's going to slam the door in his face. Then, "Well, you look like death warmed up. By a candle. In an abattoir."

It doesn't exactly feel better, but he thinks he feels the tightness in his chest ease a little. "Carter…"

It's the only word he manages before he falls forward, unconscious, into her arms.


	2. Chapter 2

_Four months earlier_

The file doesn't fall into his hands so much as it's thrust into his them by a very urgent looking Hess. She's barely been on American soil ten minutes, the pair of them in the back of a black Chrysler departing the runway where the Men of Letters' private jet is parked, when she takes out her briefcase and hands him the contents. "Here. Take a look at this." Her tone is sharp, as ever.

Ketch takes it off her, frowning at the front of the dossier stamped with ' _CLASSIFIED_ '. "Straight to business, I see. What is it?"

"Your next assignment," Hess answers tersely. "Dr Ada Valenkova, goes by Carter. Surgeon, alchemist, and former asset to British intelligence."

Ketch's eyebrows creep up a half inch towards his hairline. This was supposed to have been a pick up and escort run. The sudden extra assignment was unexpected, but he knows, like everything else, she intends to keep it out of Mick Davies' sight. His eyes scan the front page, taking in the grainy surveillance footage photo of a dark haired woman in a hospital parking lot. He picks out a few details, notably " _rogue operative"_ and " _demon affiliate"_ from the main body of the text before returning to the profile. Curiously, her nationality is listed as British, not Russian. Then he notices the birth date. "She's looking good for 92."

"She developed an alchemical formula in the 60s that allows her to live indefinitely without aging," Hess explains, and immediately Ketch's curiosity piques. That explanation needs more than a sentence. "She's worked for us on previous occasions. Strictly a contract basis, but it was mostly before my time. We've been trying to keep tabs on her, but she dropped off the radar a few years back."

"And what does this have to do with our current situation with the American hunters?" He's begun to flick through the pages, eyeing up more photographs. He hasn't missed that the skills section lists "torture".

"Our latest intel on the Winchesters suggests Dean has made contact with her."

That grabs Ketch's attention. He looks up. "Oh?"

"It appears she's been providing medical services to demons in North America for the past decade or so. Surgical upgrades. We've managed to confirm as such with two demons we were able to capture. Word is she provided a similar service for Dean Winchester."

"Well that is...fascinating." It's an understatement. Now he's devastatingly intrigued.

Hess gives him a sombre look. "Her MI6 record also shows above average performance with tracking difficult targets. We believe the Winchesters have recruited her with the intent of locating Kelly Kline and having Dr Carter deliver her child. That can't be allowed to happen."

"No. Of course not."

"Find her, Ketch, and stop her."

He nods, serious and obedient. "Yes, ma'am. I'll start as soon as I've seen you safely to the hotel."

"You'll start now."

There's a pause as Ketch grits his teeth, not quite imperceptibly enough that she doesn't notice. He should have known that was the correct response. "I take it Mr Davies is not to know about this?"

"Naturally." She purses her lips. "Until he has completed his performance review to my satisfaction, you are to run all his orders by me. His handling of the situation with Lady Bevell has called his competence into question. For now, consider this mission top secret."

"Yes, ma'am." He tries to hide his smirk of satisfaction. "May I ask when you intend to tell him you're here?"

"At such a time as I deem it appropriate." The non-answer irks him, but it's all he's getting. "It's a large file, Ketch. I suggest you start reading."

She turns away to stare out of the tinted windows at the streetlights zipping by, and Ketch knows that's his cue to shut up. She's had a long flight. There's no room for polite conversation. Only business.

He buries his nose in the dossier and begins to read.

—

"Coffee. Black. To go." Carter sets the money down on the counter as abruptly as she'd ordered and waits, lips pursed.

She'd gotten the call from Dean a couple of days ago, prompting the sudden road trip across half the country to Lebanon, Kansas. He'd sounded desperate, like she was his last resort. Can't say she blames him.

It's barely been five seconds when she's interrupted by a random stranger, making her skin prickle in irritation. "Well, it's good to hear a familiar accent," a voice drawls behind her, like pretentious home county nails on a chalkboard, and she rolls her eyes. "Why don't you come join me?" he's already invited her by the time she turns to look at him, glaring daggers. "Maybe make a friend this far from home."

"I doubt it's that familiar," she says, deadpan, as the drink arrives and she picks it up. "I didn't go to private school and I have places to be. So, thanks, but no thanks."

She's already turning away when his next sentence stops her dead in her tracks. "I don't see there's any need to hurry. We're both on our way to see a dear mum-to-be."

Carter freezes. "And that means what, exactly?"

"I believe you know Kelly Kline. Or at the very least, you're about to."

 _Fuck_ , Carter thinks. She turns, striding to the booth with a filthy look as she sits down opposite him. "Alright, who are you?" she hisses, pouring as much venom into a hushed tone as she can.

"Arthur Ketch, British Men of Letters," he introduces himself smoothly, taking another sip of the cup of tea he has in front of him. She can smell it's Earl Grey. With lemon. _Toff_.

"Oh, hello Arthur. Nice to meet you," she says with a cutting fake smile. "Now that we're done with the pleasantries, how about you tell me why I shouldn't take that silver spoon in your mouth and ram it down the back of your throat?"

His eyebrows lift, amused. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to cause a commotion."

"I can be surprisingly subtle."

"Oh, I know." He almost seems to smile at that. "In fact, I know a great deal about you, Dr Carter, and therein lies our problem."

"I don't know about that, but I can certainly make it your problem," she retorts, turning the threat up to eleven. She doesn't know who this asshole thinks he is, but she hates being caught off guard.

"You see, you're the doctor who's going to deliver Kelly Kline's baby," he continues, then his superficially polite tone turns a note menacing. "And I'm afraid I can't let that happen."

A smirk plays on her lips. Just give her a fucking excuse. "It's really not a case of you letting me. I do what I like, and bad things happen to people who stand in my way."

"Then I'm afraid we've reached something of an impasse," he replies, unfazed. "Because the same happens to people who stand in mine."

A tense moment passes, and then Carter lets out a breath, allowing her anger to turn into a sarcastic chuckle. "Well, I guess we'll just see which of us wins out then," she says. "So, if it's all the same to you…"

She's about to rise again, but he puts out a hand to grab her coffee cup, forcing her to either abandon it or stay. It won't stop her leaving, but it buys him a few more seconds.

"You do realise that this baby is Lucifer's child?" he says, the patronising tone suddenly increasing her urge to slap him tenfold.

"And Lucifer was God's child. Children aren't their parents."

"Accurate, yet in this case, irrelevant." He hardens his stare, the mocking derision turning to seriousness. "The consequences of the birth alone will be devastating."

"Why do you think they hired me?" That buys her a few seconds, his eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what it is he doesn't know. "Look, I have paying clients waiting for me. You don't want me to play midwife, make me a better offer. Other than that, stay out of my way." She bats his hand away, picking up the coffee and striding off without a backward glance.

Ketch stares after her, letting out a sigh, and then finishes off the last of his tea. He sets down the cup, places a few crisp dollar bills on the table, then gets up and follows.

There are only five cars in the parking lot. Hers is the black Jeep Renegade, trailer attached, which is currently backing up out of a parking space and taking a turn that takes it perilously to where he's left the Norton.

He can see her through the driver's side window, twisted round in her seat to peer through the back as if she's doing it on purpose. She must have guessed the bike's his. Given every other car in the lot probably falls under the category of "mid-range family vehicle", he'd have drawn the same conclusion.

His pace quickens, expression turning pissed as the trailer finally hits the bike, pushing it a few meters before it topples and the front wheel slides under the trailer's chassis. The Jeep stops, and the front window rolls down so that Carter can stare out straight at him with a mocking smirk. "Sorry, was that yours?"

Ketch just glares. He picks up pace, sliding a hand inside his jacket as he strides up to her passenger side door before she's had chance to complete the turn and pulls it open.

Surprise flits briefly over her face as she looks for a moment like she's cursing that she forgot to lock the door, then it turns to a scowl as she reaches for the coffee cup she's left on the dashboard. Ketch clambers inside and Carter pops the top off of the scalding drink with one hand, and throws it. At the exact same time, Ketch raises his hand to bury the needle clutched in it in her neck.

A look of shock crosses her face, this time lingering while a look of pain settles on his. He depresses the plunger, gritting his teeth against the burn of the liquid soaking into his sleeve. Within seconds, Carter goes limp, slumping against the steering wheel so that the horn blares. Ketch curses.

He hurriedly drags her off, laying her down on the passenger side seat as he clambers back out and glances over to check that no-one's walking out of the diner at that moment. As it is, his luck holds. If anyone inside saw anything and decided to call the police, by the time anything happens, he'll be long gone.

Ketch curses again under his breath as he shakes his arm, a few droplets of now-lukewarm coffee falling to the tarmac. The suit's dry clean only. He slips off the blazer then tosses it over Carter so that it at least looks somewhat to a casual observer like she's sleeping, then slams the door and crosses to the back of the trailer.

It takes most of his strength to get the bike out from under it and stand it upright again. He takes a moment to check for damage, but to his relief, there doesn't seem to be a scratch on it. He's crashed the damn thing before and it's fared worse.

Satisfied, Ketch's attention turns to the trailer. He undoes some of the fastenings on the tarp covering it and throws it back, then lowers the loading ramp. She's got an entire exam table loaded up on the back, it looks like, plus some incredibly old-fashioned monitors partially wrapped in polyethylene, and a few plastic crates, only a couple of which feature yellow sticky labels identifying them as containing medical equipment. The trailer's about 80% full, but there's space.

Ketch wheels his bike up the ramp and rearranges a few of the crates around it before securing it with the straps, then returns the ramp and the tarpaulin to how she'd had them before. When he climbs back into the Jeep, taking the driver's side, he smiles slightly upon seeing she's already got a TomTom stuck to the dashboard. Really, that had been too easy.

He knows roughly where he's going. There's a disused warehouse owned by the Men of Letters a couple of hours' drive away, and he thinks it'll do nicely for what he has in mind. Ketch punches in the zip code, puts the car into gear, then completes the turn out of the parking lot and begins to drive off.

On the passenger side of the car, Carter cracks an eye open, gazes for a second at the GPS screen, then closes it again without a word.


	3. Chapter 3

_Then_

There's a poetry in it, Ketch thinks, twirling the blade in his fingers as it glints under the surgical lights. Demon doctor tied up on her own table, under her own scalpel. Seems a fitting way to gouge the thorn from the Men of Letters' side.

He reaches down to pull up Carter's bloodied shirt even higher, exposing more skin to carve at. It's already so scarred, and he has to admit he's a little taken aback by the sheer amount of white scar tissue criss-crossing her abdomen. Still. Won't stop him from adding more.

He picks a spot between her sixth and seventh ribs, right side, and sinks the scalpel into her liver. She screams, throat raw and bloody as he carves.

"I can make this all stop," he says, voice cold and calm above the shrieks. "Just tell us where Kelly Kline is and what your plans are for her child."

Carter's scream cuts off, strangled into a grunt, but then there's silence. She stares up at the warehouse ceiling, eyes unfocused, breathing heavy.

"No?" Ketch prompts, trailing the scalpel over more of her exposed skin. The blade finds her throat, probes the artery. No pulse. Of course there isn't, but now he's intrigued. "Very well, then." He slices, and she screams again, writhing making the cut worse as he pulls back a flap of skin. "I've read your file. I know all about you, doctor. There's no point trying to keep secrets. All you have to do is talk to us."

She continues to cry out, intermittent screams in between heavy breaths, almost sobs as her chest heaves. It gets louder, more pained as he drags the blade towards her clavicle. Her fists clench. " _Fuck_!" The word is raw. " _Fuck fuck fuck_." Ketch smiles, starting a curve down across her chest, and then, " _Yes_!"

He pauses. The blade lingers, confused.

"No, don't stop," she pants out, eyes screwed shut. "Right there. Keep going."

 _What_?

This wasn't expected. Tentatively, he tries dragging the blade again and for a moment it seems that she's screaming in pain. Then she gets louder, and there's no mistaking it's laughter.

"You fucking idiot," she eventually snarls. "You have an entire fucking dossier on me, yet you missed the main fucking thing." Her eyes snap open. She fixes him with a glare, cold and menacing, and it takes him a heartbeat to realise he miscalculated. "I don't feel pain."

There's no chance for him to reassess, evaluate. She moves. The restraints snap clean as her hand comes up, shockingly powerful, and closes on his wrist to shove the scalpel away. He gasps at the tightness of her grip, instinctively trying to pull back, and then she's rising like a demented Frankenstein from the table.

"Radiation sickness did a number on my nervous system," she taunts, voice hard and oblivious to the wounds dripping blood. "You're gonna have to do better than that." His free hand grasps at the tray of instruments, searching for something he can use as a weapon, but she kicks it out of reach and twists his arm hard, leaving him with the choice of dropping to the floor or suffering a dislocated elbow. He goes down.

"You _bitch_ ," he snarls, voice flooded with hate-fueled anger. She hadn't just played him. She'd humiliated him too.

"Nah. I think you can be the bitch." He hears the crunch before his body catches up with his brain, and he screams.

She's crushed his wrist. Whatever superpowered alchemical formula she pumps herself with, it's turned her grip into a vice capable of shattering bones, and his hand immediately goes limp.

He's starting to realise there were a lot of mistakes in her file.

It's no mercy when she lets him go, the change in pressure suddenly triggering a fresh wave of shock, and he can barely breathe as he clutches his hand to his chest. Through the waves of pain turning his vision red, he tries to get to his feet again, make it to the gun he's left beside his jacket just a few meters away.

Behind him, there's a mechanical hum and the rattling of chains as Carter's found the controls for the warehouse loading gear he'd used to get the table here in the first place. Maybe this wasn't the best location after all.

He's practically made it to his weapon, hand closing on the handle of the pistol when he feels something heavy collide with his shins and he's knocked off his feet. A chain's wrapped around his ankles, tightening up to his knees as Carter manipulates the other end, then she hits the button for the pulley overhead to pull it taut.

The chain begins to drag him back roughly over the floor. Pain shoots through his body as he twists and tries to shoot, most of the shots going wide, then with a jolt he's pulled up and off the ground altogether. One bullet finds her hip, but all it gets is a look of irritation.

Carter stands with the control in her hand, waiting for him to be lifted upside down until his head is slightly below level with hers, then she shuts it off. She crosses to him with a scowl and wrenches the emptied gun from his hand. "Amateur," she spits, tossing it away, then reaches up to unfasten his belt.

Ketch's heart is pounding, blood quickly rushing to his spinning head. "Well, I have to admit, well played," he pants between the waves of pain, though his composure is slipping quickly. "I really bought that little show of yours."

"Yeah, well. I've caused enough pain to know what it looks like."

She twists both his arms behind his back, good one and crushed alike, and secures them tightly with his own belt. He screams again, vision blacking out, and when it returns he can see the sadistic smile that's settled on her lips. He knows that smile. Seen it reflected back at him in the blade of a knife enough times.

"Let me tell you, it looks something like that," she says softly, then starts working at his shirt, unbuttoning it carefully before pulling the fabric back to expose his chest. "You reckon you're a hotshot, but I have decades of experience on you."

He watches her turn away, going to retrieve the scalpel from where he'd dropped it to the floor and wheeling the cart of instruments back over. She isn't lying. It had all been there in her file: kept alive for decades by her own experiments in alchemy, and most of them spent in the business of torture.

"You know, my father was a Cossack," she says, wiping her own blood from the scalpel on his shirt. "Fled to England after the revolution, but he taught me how to hunt. Small things like foxes and badgers usually, but we'd go a bit bigger whenever we visited America. Bears, deer...that sort of a thing. Taught me how to skin what I catch too, and I guess now I get to skin what I Ketch." Her lips twist, smiling at her own joke. "Let's see if posh boys like you really do bleed blue…" The tip of the scalpel comes to rest in the soft space below his ribcage, almost teasing, as she watches it move with the frantic thrusts of his abdominal aorta.

His jaw clenches. He's bested, and he knows it. And scared. "Alright," he hisses out, chest tight. "What do you want?"

It was a mistake to assume he could bargain the same way he'd offered her. She leers. "I want you to scream."

The blade skims down over his sternum, grazing enough to draw a trickle of blood, then she finds his left nipple. She teases at it, scalpel scraping until it hardens to a point, and he feels his stomach turn.

She only has one nipple. He's seen it: the twisted mass of scar tissue where the other one should be, and for a moment he wonders if she's going to carve him in her own image. Then the tip of the blade moves an inch or two towards his navel, digging in where his heart beats beneath the skin.

It lingers, the moment drawing out as he braces for the pain, and wonders if this is some technique to make him more afraid. Her expression is blank, save for the strange intensity of her stare fixated on that point on his chest.

His heart beats several more times, pain pricking his skin in time with his rapid pulse, then at length she sighs and turns away. Ketch blinks in confusion.

"When the master torturer of Hell came to recruit me, I told him to go fuck himself," she says as she retrieves the control for the pulley. "I'm not breaking my streak for you."

He's still bewildered as she lowers him to the floor again, landing in an awkward pile, and he can't help but flinch as she moves to help him untangle the chains. She doesn't look at him when she cuts the belt, and he lets out an involuntary whimper as he clutches his hand to his chest.

"What, gone soft?" he tries to taunt, but his voice trembles.

She fixes him with a blank stare, and even the unreadability of her expression is unnerving. "Let me take a look at your wrist," she eventually says. "I'm a doctor."

There's a wariness to his his stare as she reaches a hand out to him, his eyes flitting past her shoulder as he wonders if there's some weapon he can reach or something he can do, but in all honesty, he thinks he's wrecked.

Gently, she grasps his shoulder, drawing his arm away from his chest as she casts a clinical gaze over his wrist. He can't help the whimper that slips through his teeth. "Alright," she says firmly. "Get up."

He only half needs it when she puts her arms under his shoulders to pull him to his feet, but she's so unusually strong she seems to be taking most of his weight. She leads him back over to the exam table, the floor around it slick with blood, and a jerk of her head tells him to sit. He does in silence, watching her curiously while she crosses to the trailer to take out more boxes. They get placed down beside the crate of tools he's already laid on the fold-out table, then she goes to get the matching fold-out stool from the trailer.

She opens it and sets it down in front of him, giving him a final appraising glance before she returns to the boxes and begins to prep some equipment.

"The only local anaesthetic I brought was for an epidural, so it's morphine or nothing," Carter says as she crosses back to him and takes a seat, syringe in hand. "Arm."

He holds out the uninjured one to her and she pushes up his sleeve to inject straight into a vein. He watches her with a silent grimace, then she turns to his broken wrist.

"Alright, let's take a look." She lifts it gingerly, making him wince, and it earns a him a hard stare. "I won't lie, this is still gonna hurt like a bitch."

He grits his teeth. "I can handle it, I assure you."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

" _Absolutely_." She repeats it back to him with a sneer, mimicking his accent with an exaggerated "yu" on the third syllable. "Where the hell are you even from anyway? Poshton, Toffershire?"

"You're hardly one to lecture me on class," he retorts with a scowl. "You aren't exactly a plebeian yourself."

"I'm from Cornwall." She doesn't look up from his wrist, tenderly probing the break, and he has to mask a grimace of pain with a sarcastic smirk.

"Well, the West Country accent has changed since last I heard it. Or is that Cornwall, Crimea?"

She gives him a dirty look. "Looks like a comminuted fracture. Can't be sure without an x-ray. And my father was from Siberia, not Crimea."

She stands again, crosses to one of the equipment boxes still left in the trailer. "I can splint it for you, but you'll need a trip to the ER."

He nods, giving another hiss of pain through gritted teeth, though he thinks it's slowly fading. "Alright. Do it." He still doesn't know why she's suddenly turned so caring, but now hardly seems like the best time to question it.

Carter takes a seat opposite him again, laying the splints and bandages on her lap as she takes his hand and sets to work. It's not been the first thing on his mind, but looking at the cuts he inflicted on her neck, studying them now at close range they don't seem as deep as he remembered. Presumably, she heals. He doesn't know how fast.

Several minutes pass, Carter working in silence as Ketch suppresses every urge to hiss or gasp in pain. It gets easier, the longer time passes and the morphine works its way into his system. His eyes flit between her face and her hands.

"Does it work?" he asks at length, watching her bandage his wrist. She's surprisingly gentle, the morphine having dulled the pain considerably.

"Does what work?" she says without looking up, a slight pout on her lips.

"The surgery. The demon modifications. Does it satisfy the need to carve into something and watch it bleed?"

A beat. Then, "No."

She still isn't looking at him, eyes staring intently at his arm though she's just about done. It makes him nervous in a way he hadn't expected. He thinks he's only just now learning the meaning of the word "untouchable".

"I know you crave it," he remarks softly. "Nobody makes a career of torture the way you did if you don't enjoy it. If you don't need it."

"And you'd know all about that."

She's right. Of course she is. "I never would have shown you mercy," he confesses, but it fails to provoke any sort of reaction. He can't figure her out, and it both unsettles and infuriates him. "Why did you stop?" he finally asks. "After what I did to you? Even if you couldn't feel it, why not just give in and torture me? On principle."

That's when she looks up. Her stare is cool, almost condescending. "Because it isn't about you."

He's still considering that when she gets up, returning to her equipment box to take out a stethoscope before crossing back to him.

A confused frown crosses his face as he watches her put it on. "Why…?"

"Shhh." She cuts him short as she pushes back the fabric of his shirt and presses the end to his chest. He doesn't understand what she's doing: there's no damage to his heart. Then, as he studies her expression, it clicks.

"You miss it, don't you?"

That earns him eye contact, at least. "Sometimes."

He takes himself by surprise when he raises a hand to press over hers, keeping her from pulling away as she looks at him in confusion. "Does this help?" he asks, suddenly keenly aware of his own heartbeat. "Does this satisfy some need, to feel something else living and know you could hurt it if you wanted to?"

Another pause. He watches the muscles in her throat work as she swallows, and then there's a whispered, "Yes."

His heart beats harder. "Well, I'm afraid, doctor, you've just given away your weakness. You aren't going to kill me." A small smile of satisfaction forms on his lips, and even he's not sure if he's taunting her or not.

She returns the smile with a similarly ambiguous one of her own. "Yeah, well. Yours isn't the only beating heart in the world, so I wouldn't count on it."

There's a beat as they awkwardly hold each other's gaze, then Carter suddenly averts her eyes and takes off the stethoscope again. She folds it into one hand as she stands and heads back over to the equipment box, placing it back inside and then examining the inside of her wrist. He watches, curious, as she gives a disgruntled sigh.

She offers no explanation, and he doesn't ask for one as she takes another item out of the crate: a titanium briefcase which she sets down on the table and opens up so that he can see the tray containing several vials of black liquid inside. Then she goes back to the trailer once again, rummaging in several of the crates until she finally finds what she's looking for and pulls out an item encased in bubble wrap. When she brings it back over to the table and unwraps it, he's genuinely surprised to see it's a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.

"You drinking?" she asks as she lifts two tumblers from one of the cases she already has laid out, then crosses back over to him.

Genuinely, he finds this weird. "What's the occasion?"

"The occasion is that I could really use a drink. And you happen to be here." She holds out one of the tumblers, and he takes it in his good hand as she sits down and pours them each a couple of inches of vodka. He's still studying the cuts left behind on her neck. Blood is still steadily oozing out, though he thinks he can see the veins surrounding the wound as dark shadows beneath her skin.

Steadily, he sips at the drink. His eyes flit to the tray of vials atop the table. "You need a fresh dose of your formula, don't you?" He's far less confident in his guess than he makes it sound, but the sudden scowl on his face tells him he's right. "This is what happens to you when it wears off. You get weaker. Can't heal."

"Well deduced. You really are gonna have to tell me what's in this file you have on me."

"Enough. I know about your history with the Men of Letters and our alchemical experiments. Our attempts to develop the perfect formula for azoth are where you got your start."

She sips at the vodka and scoffs. "' _Our attempts_ '. You make it sound like you were there. What are you, forty?"

"Forty-three."

"I'm pretty sure your people abandoned those experiments before you were even born." She gulps down the rest of the Stoli then pours herself more.

"I believe some efforts are still being made. In one laboratory...somewhere."

"And let me guess: you still haven't managed it?"

"And you have?"

She shrugs. "I've gotten close enough."

He can't help the slightly smug smile that forms on his lips, and hides it in the glass. "Yet you still need to keep replenishing the doses." If she'd succeeded in creating the perfect life-prolonging elixir, he knows that wouldn't be necessary.

Carter's eyes narrow. "Don't go thinking it's anything you did. It degrades on its own. Not exactly predictable either."

"Sounds inconvenient."

"You know, if I'd gotten to drink that coffee, this dose might have lasted a little longer." A scowl has settled on her face again.

Ketch has to admit, he's intrigued. "As opposed to alcohol, which has what effect, exactly?"

"I don't expect you to understand the biochemistry of it."

He stays silent long enough that he knows she won't be able to resist showing off. Eventually, Carter heaves a sigh, but she's going to answer. He understands more than she thinks.

"Alcohol makes the transition bearable," she replies. "Fresh doses can be a bitch while you wait to acclimatise."

One of his eyebrows creeps higher. This is all very interesting. "For someone who can't feel pain, one does have to wonder what on earth could make it so unpleasant?"

"I sincerely hope you never have to find out."

He seems to have annoyed her. Carter rises, puts the glass down, then crosses to where his gun is still lying on the floor and bends to pick it up. She tests the weight in her hand, cocking and uncocking the hammer a few times, appraising. "Glock 22. How incredibly boring," she says, crossing back to him and then jostling the weapon in her grip to offer him the handle. Almost imperceptibly, he thinks he sees her hand tremble.

Ketch looks up at her, suspicious. "You're just going to give it back to me?"

"Haven't we already established you can't hurt me?" Her neutral expression turns to a smirk. "Besides, it's not even like you can load it one handed."

He puffs himself up, indignant. "I most certainly can."

"That I'd like to see." The scorn in her tone grates on him. That's a challenge he'll rise to.

"Fetch me my ammo, then."

Her left eyebrow instantly rises, sceptical.

"Left jacket pocket, if you really want me to demonstrate."

Without a word, she crosses to the jacket and does as he suggested, tossing the magazine onto his lap as she strides back to him. Then she goes back to her vodka, peering at him expectantly over the top of the glass.

Ketch lifts the gun, struggles for a moment to eject the empty magazine left-handed, then balances the new one upright on the table beside him. In one swift movement, he slams the bottom of the gun down over it, smoothly loading it in without a hitch. Then, he turns the Glock upside down, grips the slide between his knees, and pushes forward to chamber a round. He finishes with a flourish as if to say, "Ta-da!"

Carter stares at him, looking impressed despite herself. "You want me to clap?"

"Oh no, pouting will do just fine," he says, amused.

Her response to that is, indeed, to pout. "Alright, James Bond," she says with a sigh. "Well, I've patched you up and given you back your stuff, so if we're all good now, time for you to get back to your people and out of my hair."

There's a pause as he wonders if she's serious. She can't possibly have thought it's that simple. "Is that what you think's going to happen?"

"That's exactly what's going to happen," she says firmly. "Tell me where you're headed, and I'll drive you. Then, I hope, I'll never have to see you again."

The only reason she could possible see it playing out that way is, he imagines, any of stupidity, naivete, or arrogance, and Ketch doubts it's either of the former. "Dr Carter," he begins. "As grateful as I am for you tending to my arm and offering me a drink," - it really strikes him as bizarre that he's saying this - "And, indeed, not killing me, for reasons I genuinely do not understand, I still have my orders regarding you."

He isn't exactly sure what changes in her expression, but suddenly it's ice cold. "I've been nice to you, Ketch," she says, voice soft and dangerous. "Far, far nicer than you deserve. Don't do anything stupid."

Whatever comes next, he doubts it will be stupid. Erring on the side of reckless, perhaps, but her wounds have stopped healing. If anything, he thinks they're getting worse. This time, she'll go down easy.

"Again, I'm much obliged. But business is business, and orders are orders. If it's all the same to you," Ketch stands, drawing the gun and leveling it at Carter's head. The hammer draws back with a click. "I still can't allow you to deliver Lucifer's child."

She doesn't even put down the drink. Dark eyes glare coolly up at him, an amused eyebrow raised. "And you still think you're allowing me to do anything. No matter how much it's worn off, you know that can't kill me."

"No," he concedes, then jerks the gun just an inch sideways and squeezes the trigger. The shot whistles past her head, stirring her hair before colliding with the rack of vials she'd left atop the table. It goes flying, the bullet throwing it so that the contents spill and clatter to the floor. Glass shatters.

Carter's head whips round, eyes widening, and he fires again, two more shots to take out the vials still remaining in tact. Even with his left hand, he's a crack shot.

For a moment, there's silence, a black slick spreading across the floor as her formula seeps from the containers. She looks on, almost in disbelief, and then at last puts down the drink.

Carter stands and turns to face him, eyes dark. Threatening. "You're going to regret that."

He meets her gaze and smirks. "I think you'll regret it first."

There's a tense beat. He knows what she's about to do, and he's ready for it. One, two…

Carter lunges.

At the same time, Ketch throws himself back across the table, firing two shots before rolling across the surface and tucking his injured arm into his chest. He lands on the opposite side, quickly finding his balance, with the table now forming a barrier between them.

Carter glares, visibly winded as blood pours from the two fresh holes in her chest. The skin under her eyes has turned dark, sclera red and bloody as her gaze bores into him, making her look almost rabid. It takes her a moment to recover, and then she goes for him again.

He's scrambling back as she vaults the table, another shot going wide as she still somehow has the speed to tackle him even though he can see how rapidly she's losing blood, then he hits the floor. The shock jolts his injured arm, and he cries out, then the sound is abruptly cut off as her hands close around his throat.

It's not the same death grip that had earlier shattered his bone. It's still enough. Maybe the move had been stupid after all.

He's lost the gun, and for all his scrabbling, his fingers can't reach to clutch it again. Ketch's eyes roll into the top of his head. He struggles, arms batting at her feebly, though they may as well be flies buzzing around her head for all the effect they seem to have.

It's only the random flailing as his body begins to jerk and twitch that allows him to find it. His left hand lands on something on the floor, and his oxygen starved brain takes a moment to process what it is: not the gun. The remote for the loading pulley.

In desperation, he slams his finger onto the first button he can find. It takes everything he has to focus, but through the shadows creeping at the corners of his vision, he sees it. The hook on the end lowers into reach.

Ketch reaches out, grabs it, and swings the point at Carter's head.

It connects with a crunch, a burst of cold, slick blood spraying onto him as it slices up the skin by her ear. She rolls off of him with a grunt, dazed, then shakes her head as she scrambles back to her feet. It buys him seconds, but that's all he needs.

Ketch grasps the heavy hook in his hands, aims, then swings it again. This time, harder. The arc of the pendulum multiplies its momentum, perfectly on course as it closes the few metres, then catches her under the jaw. Carter's head snaps back, she falls, then the back of her skull collides with the hood of the Jeep parked just feet behind her.

Ketch lunges for the gun, readies for her to get back up. She doesn't.

The seconds drag out, Ketch breathing heavily as he casts a wary look over her motionless form crumpled by one of the tyres. She'd fooled him last time. He won't make the same mistake twice.

Clutching the gun tightly, Ketch takes a few cautious paces towards her and kneels down, making sure to keep the Glock pointed at her head. "Carter?" He nudges the muzzle against her temple. "Doctor?"

No response. Perhaps she really is out cold, then.

Looks like he wins.


	4. Chapter 4

_Then_

Reloading the trailer one-handed hadn't been easy. In fact, Ketch isn't even sure why he did it, other than that all of Dr Carter's methods and equipment are bound to be of interest to Hess, but he manages with the cables and loading assists the warehouse provides. Tied up though he's kept her, he's relieved that Carter doesn't wake up before he's done. The chains suspended from the ceiling that he's used to bind her can't exactly accompany them, but she's still limp and pliant as he shoves her clumsily back into the passenger side.

When she does wake up a few minutes later, her eyes are glazed, bloodshot, and she barely looks like she has the energy to stand on her own two feet. That doesn't stop her from shooting him a silent, filthy stare.

They've been driving in silence for over an hour when Carter laughs. It's not a loud noise, nothing more than a soft chuckle, but it gets Ketch's attention. He glances her way, sees her looking at him with an ominous smile, then chooses to ignore it. His eyes return to the road.

"You know," she says when she realises he isn't going to respond. "When I first made the formula—the first time I injected myself with it—I was dying of radiation sickness."

"I'm aware," he says coldly without looking at her. "I read your file in considerable detail."

"Oh, right. It's just, I wasn't sure you realised. If I don't regularly replenish my dose of the formula, by body will start to regress to the state it was in before."

He scowls in annoyance. "Of course. Do you think I destroyed your remaining formula for a jolly?"

She laughs again. "No, I get it. It just seems to have passed you by: with every passing second I get more radioactive. In the past hour or so, I'd say you've had about the same dose as some poor sod who decided to go camping overnight outside Chernobyl. Give it another hour, if that, you'll start to feel it."

That hadn't occurred to him. He glances at her again, this time more concerned. It shows.

A sadistic smile starts to spread over her face, she gives another chuckle, then it turns into a cough. A sudden fit begins to wrack her chest, effects of withdrawal rapidly worsening.

Ketch scowls. He turns away to hide his worry. "Do try not to make even more of a mess," he says irritably, and to his genuine surprise she politely lifts the collar of her jacket to catch the blood spraying from her mouth. It's several seconds before the coughing fit dies down, and she leans her head back to rest on the window, still wheezing. There are dark circles under her eyes.

"Nail beds are starting to go," she says as she examines her right hand, still cuffed to her left, and sees that they're bleeding. "Bowels should be next. I don't think you'll want me in the car for that."

He pulls another face, and she gives a genuine laugh of amusement. "I'm kidding! I don't really eat anymore. It should be fine." She seems far less perturbed by the situation than he'd hoped, and it's making him nervous. "Seriously though, you start to feel nauseous or your skin gets prickly, let me know. Like I said, I'm a doctor."

Ketch purses his lips. "In any event, I'm certain it will kill you before it kills me."

"Oh no." The smirk she gives is positively gleeful. "That's not how it works. It won't kill me Ketch. I'll just rot alive. I'll be a fucking unkillable radioactive zombie by the time we're done."

"Is that how it works?"

"You take the formula once, and if it doesn't kill you then, nothing ever will. Of course, if you want it to be a life worth living you have to keep it topped up, but I'm getting quite good at making the formula longer lasting."

He tries not to look at her, keeps his gaze focused on the road. He hates that she's got to him, but he swears he can feel the skin on the back of his hands start to tingle. He tells himself that she's lying and it's all in his head. "Well, that sounds fascinating, and I'm sure you'll have to explain it to me some time over tea and cake, but right now let's get you back to the Men of Letters headquarters, shall we?"

"If I were you, I'd be heading toward a hospital instead."

"I assure you, I feel fine."

"Maybe, but that arm still needs surgery." She glances at the wrist she's crudely put in a splint. "Bones need setting properly if you ever want to have proper use of it again."

"The Men of Letters medical personnel are more than competent."

"We aren't going to make it that far."

"You seem awfully confident."

She shrugs. "I did enjoy your heartbeat, Ketch. It's a shame."

The statement gets to him more than it should. "What is?"

"That it's going to stop soon."

He doesn't get chance to throw back at her, "I doubt it," before she reaches over to his side of the car and grabs the wheel, sending the Jeep spinning as she wrenches it sideways and the tyres leave the road. Not that it really matters, but the thought flashes through his mind at how she even got her hands free.

There was never even chance for him to cry out. Ketch flings his arms over his head, bracing himself for the shock as his world spins, crashes, glass shatters all around him, and then everything cuts to black.

—

When Ketch wakes, it's to a stabbing pain in his right arm and an uncomfortable, pinching ache in his left. His skin is cold, the air chilling directly on his upper torso, and there's something rough pressed against his back. His sense of balance tells him something's off. His body aches, every inch of it sore, with a particular strain on his shoulders. He eases his eyes open, head pounding, and squints against the bright light shining in his face.

It takes a minute to focus, but he sees its the beam from one of the Jeep's headlights, the car itself upturned in a wreck and lying at the foot of the bank sloping down from the roadside. The trailer has come loose, but mostly upright where it lies several metres away. They're in the forest.

Ketch groans, tries to move, and realises he's tied to a tree. His left arm is hoisted above him, a tube inserted in his veins running to an empty bag hanging off a nearby branch. The splint's come off his right arm, and the pressure of the rope is driving the bone fragments into his skin, making him gasp in pain.

There's stars in his vision as he tries to focus. Not too far away, Carter is knelt by the Jeep, doing something to one of the wheels. She glances his way when she hears the whimpers, and grins. He can see her gums are bleeding. "Glad you could join us, Ketch. I need you awake for this."

She pulls away the wheel rim and straightens up, striding over to him. He watches her, nervous, as she sets the rim down on the ground a few feet in front of him, next to a pile she's evidently gathered of twigs and branches. "Need me for what?"

"Well, isn't that a question you should have asked sooner?" Her voice is hoarse, and she descends into a coughing fit again for a moment, spitting blood onto the floor before she recovers. She crosses back to the trailer, retrieves something, and when she returns he sees she's carrying a can of gasoline and a bottle that looks like it's filled with water. "You may have destroyed the finished formula, Ketch, but the pre-distilled bases? I still have them." She waves the bottle in his face. Not water, then. "Which means I can make more. Just need the active ingredient." She sets the bottle to the side then pours a trickle of gasoline over the pile of wood.

"Active ingredient? You mean demon blood? Well, there's none of that here." Speaking is difficult.

Carter gives a bloody smirk. "Demon blood? All that effort I went to retrieving that book of alchemy, and you people haven't even read it, have you?"

He sees his shirt and jacket lying on the ground nearby. She crosses to it, tears a strip of fabric from his shirt and uses it for kindling as she takes a lighter from her back pocket and ignites the makeshift campfire. Ketch feels the sudden heat. He swallows, watching.

Carter upturns the wheel rim then sets it down over the fire, allowing it to begin heating before she stands again and crosses to him. "You want to know why it is I perform surgery on demons? Why someone with no stake in hell would spend hours operating on its minions without anaesthesia? It isn't because I need demon blood." She leans in, getting menacingly close to his face. Ketch feels his heart pounding, smells the stench of decay on her breath. "The active ingredient is the blood of someone in _excruciating pain_."

His mouth goes dry. She steps back, not grinning anymore, but rather looking angry as she takes the bottle of the base liquid and pours it into the heated basin. "You wanna know what the _fucking_ irony is? I wasn't even gonna hurt you."

Ketch glances at his shattered arm, then glares. "You have an odd definition of not hurting someone. Believe me, I'll find a way to make you feel it when I rip your heart out."

That makes her smirk again. "Too bad for you I don't have one."

She takes a step toward him and suddenly slams her hand against his injured wrist. He screams, vision blacking out while Carter reaches for the tube in his arm and turns the tap. Crimson begins to flow towards the bag hanging from the branch.

He's gasping for air when she finally lets go, chest heaving, and there's barely time to recover while Carter goes to retrieve something else from the trailer. She returns with a bag of surgical instruments and his own taser. There's a deranged look in her eyes. "Oh, don't cry yet. We've only just gotten started."

She drapes the bag over a branch, leaving the array of tools in easy reach as she raises the taser and presses it into his lower ribs. Ketch screams, skin burning as his muscles spasm involuntarily with the current.

Carter keeps it up for at least ten seconds, staring on impassively as he writhes beneath the restraints. His heart's begun to pound, only forcing the blood from his body faster. He's struggling for breath, chest heaving when she pulls away.

"Electrocution's always so...unsatisfactory," she laments as she checks the charge on the unit, then scowls upon seeing it's so depleted. "Never gives consistent results. If you want to produce a really potent formula…" Her fingers skim over the range of instruments at her disposal, selecting a scalpel. Small. Sharp. "You have to cut."

She leans in, presses the blade over his collarbone as he'd done to her, then drags it down. Ketch's chest heaves, the scream choking in his throat as he tries for defiant silence before it finally breaks loose, the blade reaching the base of his ribs and digging just a little deeper. She's only broken the skin. Deep enough, but it hasn't reached muscle. She needs his blood elsewhere. "You're screaming now?" she taunts. "I'm being kind."

The scalpel skims back up his chest and goes again.

Ketch's head is spinning. He's losing blood too quickly, vision swimming in and out with pain. Still he imagines she'll be crueler before they're done, but he isn't going to be awake to see it.

When she takes a nail from the toolkit and begins to slide it up underneath his skin, that's when his brain finally gives out and consciousness slips from him for a second time.

—

This time when Ketch wakes, it's to less pain than he expected. He grunts, blinking as he realises he's on the floor, damp soil beneath his head. Glancing down, he sees he's been crudely redressed in his shirt, unbuttoned enough that he can make out the bandages circling his chest. His arm's been resplinted.

His first thought is that this makes no sense. The second is dread at what else Carter needs him for.

"Welcome back," a cool voice says from nearby.

He turns his head, seeing her standing by the trailer not too far away, watching him with a cold but curious expression on her face. Immediately, he tries to get up, and is gripped by a sudden wave of nausea.

"Take it easy," Carter says. "I took two pints. You need juice and a biscuit."

"Do you have juice and a biscuit?" he grumbles, but makes no move to get up again.

"No."

"Then what was the bloody point in saying it?"

There's a pause, then she strides over to him, leaning down so that he can see she's holding a water bottle. She raises it to his lips. "Here."

He eyes it cautiously, lifting his head and propping himself up on his good arm. "What is it? Poisoned?"

"You think I'd go to all this effort just to poison you now? Drink."

He doesn't trust her, but god, he's parched. Ketch closes his lips around the bottleneck and gulps it down.

He smacks his lips when he's finally done, feeling a little less lightheaded as he attempts to sit up again. She helps him, hands grasping his shoulders and drawing a look of confusion. "Why?"

Carter gazes at him steadily. "I told you: it isn't about you. I'm not in the business of killing and torturing humans anymore. And I used to make a pretty penny for it, so don't expect me to do it for free. Not unless you force my hand."

He watches her closely as she helps him to his feet, eyes giving her a once over. He thinks he notices a difference. She isn't bleeding randomly, for one, and her eyes are less dull. "Did you get what you need?" he asks.

She shrugs. "It'll tide me over until I get back to Seattle."

"Tide you over?"

"You didn't think I don't have more of it stored away?" she retorts, an eyebrow raised. "I didn't hurt you enough to create a potent solution, Ketch. I'll probably burn through this dose in a couple of days."

That surprises him. It had hurt. Carter turns away, goes back to the trailer, then when she returns he sees she's holding out his riding jacket. "Come on," she says. "Time to get you back to your people."

He frowns, swatting away the help as he gingerly tries to ease his injured arm to the sleeve. "And then what? You go to find Kelly Kline?"

She rolls her eyes. "I have thirteen missed calls from Dean Winchester. You really think he still thinks I'm coming?"

"You aren't?"

"Ketch, you can't kill me, but that doesn't mean I want to deal with you people coming after me if I help Kelly Kline. So, I'm not getting involved. Dean isn't paying me enough for this."

"Is it that easy for you?"

"Is it not for you?" She turns back to the trailer again to fetch his motorcycle, askew, but it's survived. She lifts it like it's a pedal bike. "Alright. Let's go." She begins the climb up the bank back to the road.

He has no idea if it's an oversight or on purpose, but one-handed and injured, the climb is much harder for him than it is for her. She's stood waiting for him when he finally makes it over the side, leaning against the bike with her arms folded as if she owns it.

Ketch scowls. "I don't suppose you found my helmet?"

"Not a chance." With a dismissive shrug, she turns and mounts the bike, then gives him an expectant look.

He glares, indignant. "I don't know what you think you're doing. That's my motorcycle."

"You can't exactly drive it one handed."

"I think you'll find I'm perfectly capable."

Carter scoffs, raisinges an eyebrow. "Alright, Eddie Kidd. Even if you can, your liver still needs a few more hours to replace the red blood cells you lost, and you are not operating a vehicle until it has. Just get on behind me."

Hesitant, and more than a little pissed, Ketch eyes the skid marks left behind by the Jeep. He can't figure out what she's planning, and he doesn't like it. "You expect me to believe you'll deliver me back to the Men of Letters in one piece?"

"You need medical attention, and apparently they're the only people you'll trust to give it. So, I'll drive you to a reasonable distance, then you can walk. Just tell me where we're headed."

Oh, what the hell. By this point, there's little to lose. Somewhat awkwardly, Ketch clambers onto the bike behind her. "What about you?"

Carter shrugs. "Car dealership, I expect, then I'll come back for my stuff. I've been wanting something new for a while. I'm thinking Chevy." She revs the engine, and Ketch feels a strange thrill at hearing the engine roar in somebody else's hands.

He doesn't quite know what to do to hold on, awkwardly snaking his right arm around her waist, but he's got no strength of grip. His left arm hovers, hesitant, over her chest, and she scoffs. "Don't be a prude. You had no problem stripping my clothes off earlier. Just hold on."

It's not like he has much choice as she kicks off the parking stand and puts the bike into gear, then they're speeding off.

—

There's a forest surrounding the Men of Letters' base. Its location had been a strategic choice: keep the facility as obscured as possible while still leaving major road access for the shipping containers that form the backbone of the structure. Ketch finds himself wishing they were back in England. He wants Carter to be more impressed.

She stops the bike few metres back from the treeline, peering disinterestedly through the foliage at the hastily assembled compound. "I take it you can walk from here," she says as he clambers stiffly off the Norton.

"I can ride from here," he retorts. "You certainly aren't taking my bike back with you."

"I didn't plan to." She gets up, gives a shrug. "Though if you crash trying to drive one-handed, don't blame me."

He nods in acknowledgment, though he certainly doesn't want to actually seem grateful. "What about you?" he asks, and tries to make the question sound casual. "How do you intend to get back?" Now that he's finally got her here, he's half considering trying to get her down into the compound after all, though after two failed attempts, rather than third time lucky, it's more like third time lesson learned. He'll find something to tell Hess. The truth paints him in a poorer light than he'd like.

Carter folds her arms across her chest and shrugs again. "Head back to that conked-out truck we passed a few miles back, I suppose," she answers casually. "If it's still there, I'll jack it and go back for my stuff."

"What about the Jeep?"

"I think that's a write-off, don't you?" Her expression turns just a little more pissed. "I'm not clearing it up. Can get a new one easy enough, then it's somebody else's problem."

Ketch frowns. "You have the money to just go out and do that?"

She doesn't answer, just gives a snort.

Realising that's all he's going to get, Ketch crosses back to the bike and sits down. He thinks about trying to rev the engine, then realises she might be right about how difficult this is. "Alright then…"

"Ketch."

It takes him by surprise to hear her address him again. He looks over in time to see her reach into her jacket and then toss something in his direction. Reflexively, his left arm reaches out to grab it, and he sees that it's a test tube filled with the same clear fluid she'd used back at the roadside. He raises an eyebrow.

"One of the spare bases," she explains. "I use them for azoth, but they're good for a few things. Reduce it with a source of calcium, and it's quite an efficient healing agent for bone. I recommend half-and-half. Should have that arm of yours fixed up in a week."

He grunts. Not quite a thank you, but once again he's both bewildered and, if he's completely honest, grateful. He slips the vial into his jacket and frowns, face pensive. "Carter." He studies her expression, but it's unreadably neutral. The only way he'll get an answer is to ask. "Why?"

"That's an explanation I don't owe you," she says bluntly. "But I assure you, it's entirely to do with me, and fuck all to do with you."

That doesn't enlighten him. Still, this certainly isn't the end of it. He intends to find out.

"Good luck, Ketch," Carter says, turning and beginning to walk back in the direction they came. "I really hope I never see you again."

He turns away, looks ahead along the road to the break in the trees, and revs the bike's engine. Despite everything, he finds himself really hoping that she does.


	5. Chapter 5

_Now_

The world's still made of nothing but pain when Ketch comes to. Pain and darkness. At first he thinks he's gone blind, then he realises there's fabric over his eyes while Carter bandages his head.

Weakly, he mumbles her name. "Carter…"

Her voice is sharp when she answers. He doesn't need to see her to know the look on her face. "What the fuck did you do?"

He doesn't want to talk, but he owes her an explanation, at least. "I took the formula."

"Yeah, I figured that, genius," she snaps, and he winces. "How? You fucking steal it? You remember which one? Potency? Date? Source?"

"I didn't steal it." Even in pain, he manages to sound indignant. "I made it."

"You what?"

"That base you gave me. Used it to make my own."

There's silence for a moment, then light floods his vision as she folds up the edge of the bandage towards his forehead and secures the ends. He blinks, squints, and sees her glaring at him. "Tell me you didn't."

"The Men of Letters do have the recipe, I'm sure you recall. I had them fax a copy over from England."

She stares at him in shock, then makes a noise of disgust and turns away. "Fucking idiot."

"I don't know what you expected. You can't have been so naive as to think I wouldn't attempt it when you gave me the base." Christ, his head hurts, and it's only making him more pissed.

"Because I didn't think you could make a viable initial dose using pre-distillation," she snaps. "And judging from the state you're in, I was right."

"I'd say I did just fine, considering I'm still here."

"Yeah, well tell me that again when your brain starts to liquefy. The only reason I even use the bases is because they're quick and easy to experiment with. First time doses, you need to do the full slow reduction, otherwise you don't have a hope in hell."

"Well, forgive me for not being a professional alchemist."

"Then you shouldn't have attempted it."

She's seething. Ketch lets her simmer as he looks about him, trying to figure out what she's done. He's in her bed, shirt off, a line running from a blood bag on a stand to his arm. He swallows, shuts his eyes slowly, and tries to think. "Is that…?"

"No, it's human." She cuts him off abruptly. "You have a better chance of surviving with a full volume of blood in your body, and you'd lost a lot."

"So I do have a chance of survival, then?"

"Even the proverbial snowball technically had a chance."

There's another pause while he grits his teeth against the pain, then she snaps at him again. "How could you be so fucking arrogant? It's taken dozens of alchemists centuries to perfect that formula, and you thought you could just whip one up behind my back?"

He wishes she'd shut up. As punishments go, he'd say he's paying for it. "Well, you'd already done the leg work."

"What blood did you even use?"

"Shifter."

She rolls her eyes. "Fucking hell, Ketch. You just had to go with one of the least tried and tested methods."

"You said the blood of anything humanoid would work."

"In theory! I made those bases under the assumption I'd be using demon blood, which means the sulfur balance will be completely out of whack unless you add more. Bet you didn't even use a catalyst."

"I did, actually. Iron, just like the book said."

"The book's wrong. It needs to be steel. Carbon stabilises it, or give it long enough and your insides will turn to jelly."

"You never added sulfur to it when you used my blood."

"And I got crap quality product out of that! I've only been taking the formula for half a century, Ketch. If it wasn't already so ingrained in my system, that would have outright killed me."

"I think you've made your point." He's feeling foolish. And in pain. And scared. "So you're saying there's nothing you can do to fix this? I'm dying?"

Carter chuckles darkly, them looks at him with a twisted smile of satisfaction on her face. "No. You're already dead."


End file.
